


take me apart inch by inch

by marquelict



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artist!Harry, Drabble, M/M, nude model!draco, very indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquelict/pseuds/marquelict
Summary: Harry attends art classes in muggle London. What happens when Draco Malfoy shows up as the model?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 174





	take me apart inch by inch

**Author's Note:**

> “I don’t know. We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?” — Ursula K. Le Guin, The Wind’s Twelve Quarters

Down Curzon Street in London, England, past several blocks of never-ending construction, drab clothing stores, and hundreds of tightly packed city residences, was an art studio where Harry Potter attended painting and sketch classes semi-regularly. The studio bore the name, The Magic of Art, and although muggle in nature, promised a modern and therapeutic experience, which had reigned Harry in almost immediately.

Thus, he sat in the cold room, sweater zipped up to his collar, awaiting the next score of lessons. Last week they had done watercolor still life and the week before that practicing abstract on an oil canvas.

Harry propped up his canvas carefully and selected one of his many sketching pencils from his rucksack, placing it on the tray of his easel. His fingers itched to start drawing. To start putting lines and curves and shadows across the vastness of the canvas.

Their teacher, the one who hosted the art studio’s painting and sketch classes, was helping someone across from him setup and Harry boiled in his own seat, burning up with anticipation. He wondered eagerly what their next prompt would be, what new style of art they’d be learning and bringing to life next. A part of him prayed from illusionism.

“Good morning, everyone!” their teacher called, voice loud above the chatter that swelled from every corner of the room. As everyone’s voices died down she continued, “I am sure the lot of you are impatient to start the next draw.”

A smattering of people around the room nodded their heads, broad smiles on their cheeks. 

“Aha!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “Well, I hope you all will be nice to our guest, who has so kindly offered to be your model for this project.”

The door on the far right of the room opened and a man with alarmingly familiar blond hair entered dressed in a loose robe and nothing else. 

The man’s face was sharp and angular and handsome. It was a face Harry would be able to recognize anywhere. He could easily pick him out of a crowd of thousands or spot him in the streets, even without his glasses, remembering so keenly every movement and action that was so discernibly… Malfoy.

His breath caught and he quickly concealed himself behind his canvas as Malfoy stepped slowly toward the center of the room. Several grey blocks had been set up for him to lay on, which he scaled with ease.

“Draco here,” their teacher said brightly, “has volunteered to be this class’s nude model for today!”

And although he could not see Malfoy right now, didn’t wish to see Malfoy — ever, ever again, and especially not right now — Harry could hear the distinct sound of the robe hitting the floor. He felt the creeping start of a hot blush crawling up his neck and he swallowed harshly, trying his best to push it away.

“Now,” their teacher carried on, pacing slowly across the room, “this is to see how well you can capture his essence and his spirit. I want realism, I want heart, I want  _ soul _ .”

And Harry forced himself to look now because he paid a hefty sum for these classes and his fingers itched to sketch, to paint, to envision art no matter the subject. 

He peeked his head around his canvas, uncomfortable and suddenly boiling to death even in the cold of the room. Sweat sat impatiently on his temples, threatening to slide down the sides of his face and give away every nerve that thrummed through him.

On the grey blocks, handsome and slight and horrifyingly nude, lay Malfoy. His body, thin and ghostly pale, was propped up by one elbow, his other arm slung gracefully across his chest. The open canvas of naked skin was streaked with thin, little scars that dittany had been unable to save,  _ that Harry had caused _ . 

Trailing his eyes across Malfoy he took in the sight of his legs, long and limber, muscular and shaven soft, and before his eyes could see anymore, Harry looked away. He thought he might just die in his chair if he stole Malfoy another glance.

_ This lesson is going to ruin me _ , Harry thought to himself grimly. Perhaps he should just pack up and not paint today’s session and never, ever return to this art studio. 

“Mr Potter?”

His teacher stood behind his shoulder, staring at his blank canvas with a curious look. She placed a calm hand on his back and said, a little to loud for comfort, “Don’t get prudish on me now, dear.  _ This _ is what art is all about.”

The person beside him snickered under their breath, cupping their mouth to try and hide their amusement. Harry was not amused in the slightest.

“Yes,” Harry answered darkly. “I know.”

He wrenched his eyes away from his canvas and back to Malfoy, who had, in all the commotion with Harry’s teacher, turned to look at him. Harry gulped audibly, an uncertain fear inching its way up his body.

However, Malfoy did not seem, in the slightest, upset or nervous by Harry, sitting twenty feet away, ready to sketch his nude body. Instead, with the ghost of a smile, he moved his body ever so slightly to face Harry better, eyes transfixed on his, and parted his legs a hair.

A shiver shot down Harry’s spine and he reached for his pencil just to have something to distract him. If he looked down at his arms he’d be able to see the faint goosebumps forming along his bronze skin.

He began to sketch.

The first line constructed Malfoy’s jaw, followed closely by his chin, then his face and neck and shoulders. Malfoy had broad shoulders, which weren’t supposed to accent the slenderness that accompanied the rest of him, but it did. Somehow, it did. And Harry copied it, the slope of his neck that curved up from his shoulders and held his head high, the dip of his collarbones, the smoothness of his throat.

He worked tirelessly, memorizing and transferring the arched bones that lifted Malfoy’s face and made him look like a monarch from ancient times; kingly, cold, and ruthless. Harry carved out his silver eyes and straight nose and mouth, parted slightly, the ghost a breath filtering through in the shivering room.

Not once did he remove his gaze from Harry. 

In his head Harry imagined that it was only the both of them in the room. That Malfoy lay there, poised, body open and revealed just for Harry to draw. 

Perhaps this encounter was inevitable. 

In every world Malfoy always found Harry. Or the other way around. They’d run into each other in the corridors back at Hogwarts often, even when they had classes on opposing sides of the castle. They’d bumped into each other in Diagon Alley when Harry had been exiting Gringotts and Malfoy had been exiting Flourish and Blotts. They’d seen each other across the atrium of the Ministry, shared a large table at some mind numbing ceremonial function, met one another’s eyes a thousand times over, with malice and without.

Perhaps it was inevitable that Harry sketched Malfoy so openly.

There was no other way for it to be done. The separation between them was long and exhaustible and Harry drew him until his fingers ached, but he still didn’t stop. And when his hand cramped, he continued, not pausing even for a breath.

A voice pounded at the back of his head, loud and clear:  _ Look at him as he is, not what he was _ .

And Harry did.

He drove his pencil across the canvas easily, as if he’d done it hundreds of times before, following the lines as it formed Malfoy’s body and he became almost delirious with glee at how exact everything seemed. The dip of his stomach; the  _ Sectumsempra _ lines that clashed with his perfect, porcelain skin; the dark freckle that sat lonely on his collarbone; the Dark Mark that had since faded into a muted grey tainting his left arm horribly.

It pained Harry, but he transferred its shape and didn’t recoil. 

Harry imagined Malfoy as everything Malfoy was, truly: realism, heart, soul. All the things his teacher had mentioned. But he didn’t stop there. He added personality and memories and taste and texture and familiarity and mystery.

The pencil in his hand was steady as he drew. 

Malfoy’s eyes continued to drill into him. 

For what felt like hours, long after Harry had finished and set down his pencil and added the last bits of shading with the soft pad of his thumb, they just watched each other. 

Faintly, in the background, Harry could hear the mindless scratch of a pencil as his companions labored away. He heard heavy sighs and the rattle of ice in someone’s water bottle and the flush of wind shaking one of the window frames. He heard everything, all that the world was, and still did not look away.

Perhaps the hold they had on one another was inevitable.

They had been so entangled in each other’s lives it was impossibly hard to forget. The cold of Malfoy Manor; the heat of the Room of Requirement; the dark of the courtyard in front of Hogwarts when Harry had feigned his death. 

But there was also the sun on the Quidditch Pitch as they both soared high above the crowds, eyes craning for the snitch; the candles illuminating each other’s faces in the Great Hall, the feast clambering on in the distances as they met eyes; the warm classrooms and midnight detentions and smoky potions, spilling over their cauldrons and ‘accidentally’ blowing into each other’s faces.

The scratching of pencils stopped abruptly.

“Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” their teacher clapped her hands together, snapping Harry out of his staring match with Malfoy. “I can see you’ve all done a marvelous job of recreating Draco, but I wonder… which sketch does he believe captures him best?”

The class always did this. Showed their end result to their teacher or model, who had, every time before now, been fully clothed. So why was Harry suddenly nervous to expose his depiction of Malfoy  _ to _ Malfoy.

Harry turned his easel slowly and let Malfoy’s eyes fall onto the canvas.

If Harry hadn’t just been staring Malfoy down for eternity he might’ve missed the way the blond’s breath caught, eyes focused solely on Harry’s canvas. Just his. Just Harry’s.

“His.”

Malfoy pointed, a finger thrust in Harry’s direction. He dithered under the strange stares that came from his companions scattered about the room. If they weren’t all muggle Harry might have combusted then and there in a bright array of scarlet red. 

“Ah!” his teacher exclaimed. “Harry! He’s work is absolutely astonishing, isn’t it. I was almost worried he was too nervous to draw you, but it seems he’s captured you quite perfectly hasn’t he. If I didn’t know any better I might say the way he portrayed you is… well, it’s almost like he’s known you for years.”

And Malfoy laughed soundly, throwing his head back before shooting Harry a wink. 

A warmth passed through Harry and he pretended not to be affected by the subtle irony. They  _ did _ know each other. Not intimately, but well enough for Harry to sprout a blush that painted his cheeks rather dutifully.

“I’m so sorry, dears, but that’s all the time we have for today,” his teacher said, although her voice did not betray remorse. “Don’t forget to check your emails before our next class for instructions on what next to bring!”

Sighing heavily, Harry turned his canvas back to face him. He couldn’t bear to look at the lines that criss-crossed the space. He wanted to take it home, but he didn’t know if he should. If that was even respectable, especially since the subject in it was Malfoy. 

With tense fingers he stowed away his pencils and wiped off the smudges of lead that covered his hands. He stood, pausing before moving to leave, and grabbed the canvas at the last minute.  _ Yes, he would take it home _ , he thought.

“Hey.”

Behind the easel stood Malfoy, the robe pulled loose around his frame once more. His face was more impressive up close and Harry realized he’d missed so much on the sketch. He cursed himself inwardly at all the forgotten finer details.

“Draco,” Harry greeted and he could not tell whether his voice was light or burning with unfettered animosity. Judging by Malfoy’s calm reaction, it was the former.

The blond smiled. “Harry.”

His eyes flickered downward to the canvas in Harry’s hands and he raised a delicate brow. “Taking that one home, are you?”

“I…” Harry faltered. “I can’t just leave it here.”

“Understandable.” Malfoy winked. Again. Although this one was more personal, and it sent a lazy shudder down his spine. “I don’t blame you. I am a very handsome person.”

Harry snorted, but he did not disagree. There was undeniable truth in Malfoy’s statement, even if it had come from him. He was handsome and his very existence was proof enough of it.

“Absolutely,” Harry breathed out. 

Malfoy’s eyes dropped and Harry could feel his gaze on his lips. He swallowed, a stone lodged imperfectly in his throat. How was it Malfoy could sit, body bared to the world, to Harry, and not feel nervous in the slightest, yet here Harry was, fully clothed and feeling like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet? Like Malfoy could suddenly see every inch of him?

“Are you busy this afternoon?” Malfoy asked.

“No.”

Malfoy continued to stare at Harry’s lips and Harry continued to watch him, eyes trailing over his old enemy’s face. Memorizing the hazy thunderstorm of his eyes, the smooth line of his nose, the curve of his lips. There was a gentleness among all his sharp edges that Harry hadn’t noticed before.

“Come,” Malfoy said, voice low, “we’ll get coffee, then.”

“But you’re—” Harry gestured to the absence of Malfoy’s clothes. 

He threw back another laugh, and with the room empty except for them, cast a wandless spell, the loose robe transforming miraculously into a snug sweater and black slacks. He looked impossibly put together, as if he’d been one of the artists and not the muse.

“There,” Malfoy said. “Is that better?”

Harry wet his lips. “Yes, I suppose. That will do.”

Malfoy took Harry down the street, hand cupping his elbow, to a coffee shop with a sloping roof. Muggles streamed in and out through the door, which hung wide open, letting the warm smell of coffee beans and baked pastries filter onto the pavement outside. 

Harry had shrunk his sketch of Malfoy until it could fit neatly in his rucksack. He’d revert it back to its original size when he got home. And then he could admire it and feel as alive as he did while creating it.

The two men placed their order and found a seat, tucked in the corner of the shop. They sat across from each other, Malfoy with a smug smirk on his lips and Harry with a nervous tremor on his.

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Harry.”

“I didn’t know you modeled nude, Draco.”

Malfoy laughed, again. It seemed Harry was able to make him laugh easily, and he had a  _ nice _ laugh. It was hearty and full of life and nothing like the grim, biting laughter that poured from Malfoy back at Hogwarts. 

“I’m trying to be more comfortable with my body,” Malfoy said at last, all serious, his face tight as though he was worried about what Harry might say. “It’s hard with… this.” He pressed a light finger on his left arm. “And this.” He ran a hand down his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry burst out suddenly. “For… I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t know what the spell did. I’m sorry.”

Malfoy smiled, but it was more forced than the earlier ones. “It’s okay, Harry, I’ve already forgiven you.”

“But I never apologized.” Harry felt an odd buzz in his stomach. “How can you forgive  _ that? _ I almost… I almost killed you.”

Reaching his hand across the table, Malfoy placed it gently on Harry’s. “Drop it. We’re getting coffee. I refuse to talk about anything depressing while at a coffee shop with Harry Potter.”

Harry pulled his hand away and tucked it in his lap. He could see a sharp sting of pain flicker across Malfoy’s face before fading away as if nothing had changed. Slowly he brought his own hand back to his body.

“So…” Harry said, trying to make things light. “A muggle art studio and a muggle coffee shop? What has gotten into you?”

“People tend to actually serve me when I buy muggle coffee,” Malfoy replied curtly. “And I don’t think many wizards and witches would enjoy seeing my… mark so vividly on display.”

“I didn’t mind it,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s lips parted slightly, as if he almost didn’t believe Harry. “I know. You didn’t shrink away like everyone else does.”

“Why did you only watch me?” Harry asked. He needed to know the answer or else he might suffer forever with the feeling of  _ not _ knowing.

“You make it impossible to watch anyone else.”

Harry blinked. “I do?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Malfoy confirmed. “And I recall you watching me right back. Even after you’d set down your little… What do muggles call it? A pencil?” Harry nodded. 

Their coffee arrived at their table and the waiter smiled knowingly before vanishing behind the counter once more. Malfoy had ordered something elaborate, the steam seeping over the edges of his cup, while Harry had ordered something cheap and common, sticking like rubber to the insides of his.

“Why did you ask me here?” Harry asked, bringing the coffee to his lips.

“Why did you accept?”

“You make it impossible to refuse any kind of offer.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Harry said and bit his lip. “You really do.”

“Then,” Malfoy began, fingering the edges of his cup. “Would you like to do this again sometime?”

Harry set his cup down. “The coffee or the sketching?”

“Why not both?”


End file.
